


Red Skeleton

by Loudest_Voice



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Creepy, F/M, Ghosts, Gothic Romance, Mystery, Sibling Incest, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edith Cushing has been so fixated on her mother's ghost that she's all but forgotten the name inked on her thigh. Still, she's not prepared to handle a soulmate who doesn't seem to know her name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, so this movie has taken over my brain. For details, see [my blog](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/)

My soulmate is some manner of an aristocrat. _Sir Thomas Sharpe_.

Though he looks at me with gentle eyes, I know it disappoints Father. I’ve grown up listening to his disdain for those born into fortune, of the old rich’s penchant for resting on the laurels of their hard working ancestors.

“It’s a modern world,” he tells me with a soft smile. “Nowadays, people follow their hearts, not random scribblings on their skin.”

“You didn’t,” I say.

Father blusters, his cheeks turning pink as a rose petal in the summer, and he doesn’t resist looking up at Mother with a beaming smile.

Mother visits me that night. “He’ll come around,” she says, stroking my forehead, “when your soulmate makes his way to you.”

I don’t tell Mother, but I have my own concerns about Sir Thomas Sharpe. Or rather, where his name has appeared on my body.

Most people’s soul mark appears on their limbs, hands, necks, or backs. A few unfortunates have a name written on their faces, sometimes in handwriting that seems to come from a clumsy child. Mine has appeared on the inside of my left thigh, a vertical stripe that reaches high enough that the _e_ in _Sharpe_ is not visible without lifting my underpants. How will I reveal myself to Sir Thomas Sharpe, assuming he ever appears? Will I lift my skirts, spread my legs, and shove his face between my legs? Will his soul mark appear in a similarly indecent spot?

Mother dies soon after my soul mark appears, vanishing all thoughts of Sir Thomas Sharpe from my mind. I hold Father’s hand, then let him lay his head on my lap as he tries to hide his tears. A cold air streams through an open window, dragging the scent dying Riverkeeper leaves. I’m left waiting for Mother to rush in with admonishments about the dangers of influenza.

Mother’s ghost, and her echoing warnings of Crimson Peak, keep me occupied for the years that follow. She visits sporadically, always with the same warning ghosting over my skin. Slowly, her image desiccates. Her cheeks hallow out, her eyes mottle and drip out their sockets, and her voice whistles through gaps in her teeth left behind by her vanishing gums. Only her warning becomes sharper as time passes, until _Beware Crimson Peak_ is my brightest memory of her.

By the time Mrs. McMichael titters about the baronet’s arrival, I had not thought of his name in years.

I’m proud that I don’t react at the name before excusing myself from the exchange with the McMichaels. Despite Father’s repeated lectures about the importance of looking towards the future, of not living life according to the edicts of a superstitious past, my soulmate’s name makes my heart race and the inside of left thigh tingle.

At least I’m prepared to meet the man when he wanders to Father’s business in his outdated but impeccably fitted suit. I’m confident he does not notice any unusual reactions when he introduces himself with a simple business card made of cheap paper. I don’t tell him my name right away and I try not to study his features too closely. He is a handsome man, I suppose, though I cannot claim I would have spared him a second glance if I’d seen him somewhere in Buffalo’s muddy roads.

It’s not until he compliments my writing--and without knowing I am the author--that I take notice of Sir Thomas Sharpe’s honest smile, of the way he cannot hide his enthusiasm about something that brings him joy.

“Oh, a ghost,” he says.

“The ghost is a metaphor--”

“--I’ve always found ghosts fascinating,” he continues. “Don’t you?”

I beam, instantly deciding to tell him my name.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know the author of this story?” he asks.

“It’s mine; I-I wrote it.” My breath swirls somewhere in my chest before I can get the next words out. “I’m Edith Cushing.”

I brace myself for Sir Thomas’ reaction, but his smile widens only a little, no more than I would expect from a stranger’s polite interest. “Well, your talent is evident, Ms. Cushing,” he says. “You must show me more of this story after I’ve spoken with your father and his business partners.”

He walks past me before I can say anything more, leaving me to my scattered thoughts, as loud and disorganized as the background chatter in Father’s office.

Is it possible for someone to have a soulmate who . . . does not know them? Isn’t my name written somewhere in Sir Thomas Sharpe’s body? I’ve heard of people who are born without a mark, people who were considered . . . are still considered cursed, but never have I heard of anyone with mismatched soul mark.

My days goes by in a blur of frantic musings. Finally, I reason that Sir Thomas Sharpe cannot be too rare a name. Somewhere in the world, _my_ Sir Thomas waits, caressing the spot of in his skin that bears my name. I might never meet him but, sour and cruel as the thought might be, I would prefer never to meet him than to be the only poor soul alive who has a soulmate destined for another.

Predictably, Father nurtures an instant dislike for Sir Thomas.

“I know he’s an aristocrat,” I tell him, “but was his proposal truly deserving of such derision? Is there really a need to relish in humiliating him so?”

“I did not intend to humiliate him,” Father protests, chest puffing as though daring anyone to argue with him. “His proposal was ill-thought and ill-prepared. Why, I did the boy a favor! Maybe next time he tries to secure funding for his scheme, he’ll have a more robust pitch.”

“Father, did you pay attention at all? Didn’t you notice that his suit, while handsome, is at least a season out of date? That his shoes, though handmade, are worn? I doubt Sir Thomas has much more than his name.”

“And he expects that name to carry him through!”

“Does he?” I ask. “Clearly, he’s already been rejected by several people, otherwise he wouldn’t have traveled all the way out here for capital.”

“All the more reason for him to have a better proposal,” insists Father.

I sigh. “Papa, you don’t need to worry. He’s not my Sir Thomas.”

Father is momentarily relieved, then confused. “What do you mean?”

“We met,” I explain. “I introduced myself and he did not react at all to my name.”

“Well.” Father hesitates, then forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s for the best. I’d much prefer another son-in-law, one I can be proud of, even if his name is not anywhere on you.”

I smile until Father’s shoulders relax. Despite all his love of advancement, I know he still treasures the spot on his right triceps where Mother’s name is still clearly written in loopy script that resembles my own. I’m sure that if my mark didn’t have the word ‘Sir’ in it, he’d be like any other rich father, eager to waste money on charlatan detectives who swear they’d travel to the gates of hell to locate the right man for any well-to-do miss in the world.

Eager as I am to reassure Father that Sir Thomas’ indifference doesn’t affect me, I still cannot bring myself to attend the McMichael’s party. I don't want to see Eunice and her mother fawning over the man and flattering him into treating Eunice like a princess.

“I’m at a critical point in my manuscript,” I tell Father as I help adjust his waistcoat.

“Oh, how I wish I didn’t indulge your every whim,” Father says, but he doesn’t try and persuade me to accompany him.

I don’t like lying to Father so I make an honest attempt to write. If nothing else, Sir Thomas’ appearance should stimulate some interest on the romantic subplot I’ve been persuaded to include in my manuscript.

It doesn’t, at least not in a way that yields usable passages. I waste two pages on sugary and melodramatic descriptions of the jawline of a forced romantic suitor for my main character, one that has traveled from England with an ambitious business plan to restore his good name and family fortune. His hair is dark and softly curled. He wears an old suit with more style than any gentleman with something out of the latest magazine from New York. His hands are soft, like a poet's. It’s drivel. Worst of all, it’s drivel incongruent with the tone and theme of everything else I’ve written.

Disgusted, I put my papers away and resolve to have an early evening. I’m about to ring for a maid when a strong wind gusts into my bedroom. Electricity buzzes down my spine and I strain my ears though I can’t claim I’ve heard anything.

_Edith._

The word . . . it hardly sounds like my name, and it makes me wish I could shrink and vanish with the air. I turn around, surprised to see Mother’s anguished, smokey outline floating on the hallway to my bedroom even though I was expecting it.

Every time I tell myself I will try to talk to Mother, and every time she returns my body acts on its own. I rush to my door, my heartbeat deafening in my ears, desperate to put a barrier between the wraith and my body. Faster than my eyes can track, Mother is on me, the smog that makes up her fingers wrapped around my neck. I try to look away but she’s locked my neck in place. I can’t turn away from the sunken pits where her eyes used to be.

_Beware of Crimson Peak._

Her breath smells like nothing in this world, like the tint of winter's first storm layered with something I have no words for. Heat and cold and perfume and rot.

“Ms. Edith!”

I open my eyes and struggle to see. Beneath me is the rosebud pattern of my couch’s cushions, the pink melting into soft stems of pale green. My heartbeat is still screaming in my head.

“Ms. Edith,” my maid is saying. “You have a visitor.”

“Wha . . .” I reach for my head, certain that my chignon is in disarray. “Who is it?”

“Sir Thomas Sharpe is here to see you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting an ominous feeling that this might be more than five chapters. Jesus takes the wheel.
> 
> P. S. I'm doing my damnest to immitate so flowery, old romance novel language here.

I don’t refuse with Sir Thomas’ invitations as firmly as I should. My instincts continue to warn me away from him, but it just so happens that my curiosity is as drawn to him as a mouse is to cheese in a trap.

It’s raining in Buffalo, as it usually is throughout most falls, and Sir Thomas carries me to the carriage he has rented to keep my dress from dragging in the mud. If Father had seen us, he’d have puffed up so much I’d have feared for the buttons of his tailored silk vest.

“That was a bit of fun, wasn’t it?” Sir Thomas says in the carriage, not looking winded in the slightest.

With all the trappings of my evening dress, I weight a significant amount. Sir Thomas must be much more built than his long, thin frame suggests, and thus works much harder than his soft hands let on. If only Father would let himself see past his prejudices and paternal jealousies . . .

“Ms. Cushing,” he starts.

“Edith.”

“Edith,” he corrects himself. “As I said when we first met, I’m very much interested in your manuscript. Would it be too bold of me to ask for details of the story?”

“Like what?”

“Any details.” He smiles as he did in Father’s office, like the happiness is trying to burst out of him.

Besides Father, no one’s ever shown any genuine interest in my writing. I can’t even be certain if Father’s interest is not inspired by paternal affection than any real skill on my part. Sir Thomas’ enthusiasm means more to me than I can say, perhaps more than what his name on my thigh might mean if he’s not equally marked with my name. Desperately, I want to sound like a professional and not like a silly rich girl with time to waste on paper.

“My mother died when I was ten,” I start, working out how much I mean to say even as I say it. “Her loss has been the most significant event in my life so far, and moving past it . . .” With her ghost still haunting me, growing more anguished with every visit, moving past it has been impossible. But I can’t say as much without looking like a madwoman.

“My own mother died in a terrible accident when I was twelve,” says Sir Thomas, shifting back on his side of the carriage and briefly looking at the floor. “I’d be lying if I said her death hasn't influence my course in life greatly.”

It’s easy enough to speak of Mother after that, though I don’t even skirt the subject of her ghost and its warnings. I haven’t even touched upon Crimson Peak in my novel, or even with Father. Still, I have so many other memories of Mother; the softness of her hands as she brushed my hair, her lilting voice while she read stories to me before bed, the deft manner in which she persuaded Father to temper his sour moods, how her mashed potatoes were always the perfect texture . . .

Speaking of her so freely is like lifting a boulder off my belly. By the time the carriage reaches the McMichaels, I’ve laughed several times and been close to tears almost as many. I feel closer to Sir Thomas, though I’m jolted with a reminded of the soul mark only when I notice his hand laying on his left thigh.

Later, I think of the McMichael’s party as though it was a dream. Sir Thomas, though his actions were objectively rude to poor Mrs. McMichael and Eunice, made me feel like the wallflower heroine in one of those cheap serial novels I pretend not to read. Even Father’s protests that Sir Thomas was too forward and disrespectful only managed to make him sound dashing, as though he’s a knight who's stepped out of a fairy tale.

“He’s only taking advantage because of your soul mark,” Father declares next morning at breakfast. He only resisted the subject for a handful of minutes.

“He doesn’t know about that.”

“No?”

“Father, if I tell him about it, he’ll immediately ask me to show him my soul mark,” I say. “And then what would I do?”

Father goes as red as dying maple tree leaves in the fall and chokes on incoherent warnings about what he’ll do if Sir Thomas dares to . . . do anything at all, it sounds like. I smile and kiss Father on the forehead before heading to my study. My conversation with Sir Thomas gave ideas for several scenes. The romantic subplot will just have to wait.

In the afternoon, after I’ve added five scenes at different points in my manuscript, I receive a note from Sir Thomas.

_Dear Edith,_

_I hope you had as great a time at the McMichael’s party as I did. Since last evening, I’ve been thinking of our conversation at the carriage, and your gift for storytelling. I would pleased beyond description if I could see you later today. My sister and I plan to visit the gardens by Lake Ontario. If you’re amenable, I would be happy to collect you at your home before departing._

_Yours,_

Sir Thomas Sharpe

He likely wrote the words without thinking, but my heart stutters at _yours_. He is, isn’t he? Or he should be, if the legends about the soul marks are to be believed. And what a clever one, he is. Most men would have written some empty platitude about my beauty or my dress, but he focused on the one aspect guarantee to earn my favor: he called me a storyteller.

Sometimes, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. I accept Sir Thomas’ invitation without consulting Father, reasoning that with the Lady Lucille at the outing, everything will be perceived as proper and acceptable.

My joy at Lady Lucille’s presence lasts for as long as it takes us to reach the gardens. Though I don’t want to be led by unsubstantiated impressions as Father so often is, I can’t deny that Lady Lucille makes my nerves prickle with suspicion. Moreso than Sir Thomas, Lady Lucille strikes me as the kind of aristocrat Father has warned me about for my whole life. Her beauty is severe, as though she’s staring down from a painting and finding you wanting. Her words, even when polite, are biting in a manner too subtle to draw attention towards without seeming like the aggressor.

“I imagine your life does not lend itself to much excitement,” she says when Sir Thomas compliments my story in front of her. “How resourceful you must be to dream adventures.”

She isn’t wrong, but it still strikes me as a rude thing to say.

“Forgive Lucille,” says Sir Thomas when his sister wanders off to gaze at the yellowing cypress branches. “She does not realize that her bluntness is sometimes . . . uncalled for.”

I smile. “What right do I have to gripe about brash family members?”

Sir Thomas grins my favorite smile. “I can’t say I blame your father for his antipathy. To him, it must be galling that someone with my supposed connections is having so many financial difficulties.”

“I most important word you spoke is _supposed_ ,” I say, watching as Lucille kneels to pick something from the sod, then bring it close to her face for further examination. “Father cannot pretend he knows your circumstances or your past; but he does, even though he complains that gentry make assumptions about people based on what their fathers might or might not have been.”

“We are all blind to our own faults,” says Sir Thomas. “It’s perhaps the greatest human folly.”

“What are your faults, Sir Thomas,” I wonder, afraid that I’m vision of him is as clouded as Father’s. What proof do I have that he isn't feigning interest in me to gain Father's favor, just as Father has been hinting without subtlety since the McMichael party?

“Please, just Thomas,” he says, glancing down and creating a demure image of humility. “And I’m afraid I’m not wise enough to see myself so frankly. Can you?”

“I keep looking at the past,” I say, hoping I don't sound childish.

“Ah.” Sir-- _Thomas_ leans closer, crossing his arms at the small of his back. “Your metaphor.”

“Yes.” A gust of wind sweeps through the garden, knocking dust and seeds from the dormant trees.

Lucille looks at us as the cluster of leaves fall around her, beautiful as the woodland fae that hunt old fairy tales. I swear her stare burns a whole in my chest, though I have nothing but a premonition as evidence of her dislike.

“Do you know what is you’re trying to bring to life with this metaphor?” asks Thomas.

“I don’t know. Maybe . . .” Mother’s warning echoes through me. _Beware Crimson Peak_. “I’m trying to understand someone.”

“May I read your manuscript, Ms. Edith?”

That jolts me into looking straight at him, determined to see past my own infatuation and into the man beneath.

“Maybe I can help you understand this person,” says Thomas. "And if nothing else, it might be helpful to have another set of eyes on the word choice, story, and diction."

I hesitate. My work is personal and I've always intended to publish under a pseudonym, though presenting myself as a man directly to publisher is a new idea. I feel more apprehension than excitement at the thought of anyone besides Father reading my work.

But if I ever manage to trick a publisher into accepting my manuscript, who knows how many will read my work and speculate about its author. “Of course,” I tell Thomas. “If nothing else, a reader’s impressions would be invaluable to me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my fanfic, you might like some of my original fiction over at [my blog](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. Trying to figure out just how I'm gloss over important movie scenes to get to the stuff I really want to write.

Time becomes a strange entity after the outing in the garden.

During the next two weeks, Thomas reads through almost half my manuscript, sending back painstakingly detailed notes in separate pages. It’s nothing like the courtships described in my romance novels--in fact, I’m not sure it can even be called a courtship--but I still feel as if I’m walking on clouds and communing with the stars. Thomas sings me praises liberally, but he does not hesitate to point out passages that sound too flowery, dialogue that feels stilted, and plot developments that ring untrue. The acerbic comments refine the sweetness of the praise.

“I refuse to waste capital on that boy’s harebrained contraption,” Father says one evening after I mention some clever comment or other Thomas has made. Then his eyes soften and he cradles my hand like it’s a dove. “Dear, he’ll be on his way soon enough and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I know he’ll have to depart soon,” I say, withdrawing my hand. “I don’t see why I shouldn't enjoy his company while he’s here.”

“My dear,” says Father, his annoyance dampened by worry. “I wish you wouldn’t grow attached to him, driven by that accursed tattoo. He’s only . . .” I’m relieved that Father can’t bring himself to voice outright accusations about opportunistic fortune hunters. “He will leave.”

“I’m not driven by the soul mark,” I say, trying to look dignified. “He’s intelligent, and an avid reader. His suggestions about my novel have been invaluable.”

I excuse myself from dinner early, blaming a headache. The truth is that with every passing meeting, with every letter exchange between me and Thomas, I worry more and more about the soul mark. I thought I had grown past superstitions about mine. Most people never meet their soulmate, or they’re saddled with common names and end up married or living with people they’re not compatible with. Nowadays, it’s not uncommon for people to ignore the damned things and choose spouses based on mutual love and respect.

Considering the dearth of aristocrats running around Buffalo, I assumed I’d need to do the same.

Now I toss and turn in bed almost every night, obsessing about the possibility of another name adorning Thomas’ skin, of his moving back to England to meet and love a sweet British lady. Only the frantic messages from Mother’s ghost distract me from my masochistic imagination, and I cannot decide if images of Thomas with an anonymous woman are any worse than the whisper of _Beware Crimson Peak_ ghosting over my face, sending chills down my spine.

“Cavendish,” Thomas tells me during their next outing, “is turning into one of my favorite heroes.”

“Really?”

“He’s a man trapped in an unthinkable situation, isolated from the rest of the world, trapped with a mother who does not respect or trust him,” says Thomas, “ and yet he does not surrender. His fear is undeniable, but so is his determination to continue living. Such a nuanced presentation of courage is rare and inspiring.”

I almost tell him about my soul mark then and there, ready to lift my skirts under the morning sunlight, unconcerned with whoever might be watching or what they might say or think. Thomas must have a similar mark with my name, and he’s probably scared that I didn’t react to him just like he didn’t react to me. At the very least, he must be one of the rare people who has no soul mark. But I know that the world would not be so cruel as to drop such a reader on my lap, give him my presumptive soulmate’s name, and then make him another’s.

Thankfully for my reputation, Lucille interrupts us. Thomas and I step away from each other when she reaches him and places a hand somewhere in the small of his back, her hazel eyes boring into me as she offers us a small smile. Perhaps I should be grateful because the truth is that any inappropriate behavior between me and Thomas will be blamed entirely on me.

That night, Thomas’ words give me a boost in strength. I can bring myself to focus on Mother’s words, to look upon the skeletal face that no longer resembles the living woman who once dabbed towels dampened with hot water over my skinned knees.

“What is it?” I gasp. “What’s Crimson Peak?”

_Beware. Beware Crimson Peak._

My maid wakes me then, asking why I’m crying. I make some excuse about fading nightmares as I wipe my cheeks, and she informs me that Father wants to see me.

“I’ve decided to invite the Sharpes to our next dinner party,” Father says, adjusting his cravat in front of the mirror in his study. “If this man is to be your . . . friend, then I intend to be on good terms with him while he’s here.”

Of course, I’m suspicious of Father’s sudden amiability. I love the man with all my being, but he’s nothing if not stubborn.

“Thank you,” I say, unwilling to jump to conclusions. After all, Father is as scrupulous as he is stubborn, and I cannot bring myself to believe that he would plan anything nefarious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my fanfic, you might like some of the original shorts I post over at [my blog](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

The news of Thomas’ imminent departure are a two-pronged attack. I hadn’t considered that he would leave, perhaps deliberately so. Certainly, I expected that he’d tell me so in private rather than announce it in front of a dozen people. Friends give each other such news in private, don’t they?

In all honesty, I also did not expect to be affected so strongly.

I excuse myself so I can go cry alone. Thomas follows me, and I expect . . . I don’t know what I expect. That he’ll tell me I misheard. That he wants me to come with him. That he plans to leave months and months from now, then extend his stay, then never leave. That he wants to marry me. That my name is on his skin. That he loves me. Something.

His insults blur together after a few rushed sentences, though I must admit that his performance is without flaws. Only my suspicions about Father’s sudden eagerness to welcome him to our home clue me in that he’s lying. I slap him anyway because, lie or not, I thought him above such tawdry performances. Isn’t he the one always going on about Cavendish’ bravery? Isn’t he the one saying that people should follow their hearts, even if it will wound their pride?

Father comes to my room after dinner and finds me lying in bed, my eyes dry as old paper in a hot room.

“Edith, dear.” I know he was not expecting to find me so composed. I’m surprised to be so composed. “It’s perhaps for the best that this . . . adventure ended so promptly.”

“Yes, perhaps,” I agree.

He’s not expecting that either, so he leaves my room with an air of worried consternation.

Mother’s ghost doesn’t visit that night and I’m so fixated on Thomas that I don’t notice until weak sunlight is streaming through my window next morning. A wave of sadness overtakes me, for Thomas or for Mother’s ghost, I cannot tell. I’m too exhausted to hold back a stream of sobs, ugly ones that make my nose run my throat close up. The supposed relief brought by a good cry does not reach me. I’m left on my bed, refusing an offer of tea from my maid in a thin voice. Thankfully, Father has gone to work so they cannot fetch him.

I’m not sure what I can do about Thomas, but I know I must do something. I’m spurred by the knowledge that his name is on my person, though I suspect little would change about my feelings if it wasn’t. Except for the disastrous conversation last night, Thomas speaks to my soul and understands what I try to say in turn. He has noticed aspects of my writing even I wasn’t aware of, like my focus on the spectre of gender expectations painting my work.

“Cavendish very much envies a woman’s right to tears, doesn’t he?” Thomas asked me once. “I suppose I do sometimes, but I don’t pretend it’s not easier to be a man in most cases.”

A man doesn’t share such things with a woman on a lark. He feels for me, I know, and I can’t let him leave the country without telling him I feel for him as well. I cannot live a life wondering what would’ve happened if I’d been brave with my presumptive soulmate.

But I don’t know what to do. My options are limited, would still be limited even if I wasn’t constrained by role as well-educated young lady from a respectable family. Worst of all, I have my pride. I’m not sure my spirit would survive if Thomas convinces me that he has been playing a game with me all this time.

A missive from Thomas arrives early that morning just as I’m a breath away from throwing caution to the wind and rushing to his hotel. That’s what I end up doing anyway, my joy at Thomas’ declaration overshadowing any anger I might feel at Father’s meddlesome betrayal of my feelings. My arguments with him can wait.

I’m planning a million things to say to Thomas on the way to the inn. Most of them would’ve sounded stupid to me before I met him. I want to tell him that I care not for Father’s money, that I’ll go with him even if we have to spend the rest of our days languishing at the poorhouse.

I’ve seen enough beggars at church to know such a thing is easy to say from the comfort of wealth, yet it still sounds true to me now that I have the threat of a life without Thomas hanging over my head. For better or worse, I’ve turned into one of the trite characters from cheap romance novels that I always spurned as impractical.

I stumble on the way to the inn, almost falling on a puddle of mud before I reach the entrance. A symbol of the ruin I might be heading towards, perhaps. It doesn’t even slow me down.

When the maids tell me that the Sharpes have gone, the floor seems to disappear under my feet. For a moment, I fear I will faint like a ninny from a romance novel, a scene I swore to myself I would never cause. I order myself calm with a reminder that I might still catch them at the station.

My knees buckle outside the room the instant I spot Thomas’ frame outside the hotel room. Any words I had for him melt as I run to his arms, relieved that I’m at least not crying.

Then all images and sounds become dull. I know the police cannot have a good reason to look for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My blog is still [here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/). Feel free to stop by to ramble about this movie.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ghost story for Halloween . . . which I almost forgot about.

Father’s skull had been smashed in. I only looked at it for a second, but I have seen nothing else since. I try to look at Thomas but the gore superimposes itself on his face. I see fragments of bone protruding from the skin of his forehead and transparent fluid tinged with red leaking from his shattered eye and deviated nose. I look away when Thomas leans closer, extending his arms towards me, and he steps back without touching me.

“Edith, if there’s anything I c-can do.” His voice cracks and I don’t have the energy to follow through on a instinct to reach for him.

“Thank you,” I say, “but I think I would like some time alone.”

Thomas almost seems relieved to be dismissed. So do my maids when I ask them to take an early day. Father’s lawyer sends a message that he is ready to handle the details of the funeral without saying anything about the hassles of inheritance. Alan stops by my house in the early evening and it’s harder to dismiss than it was to dismiss Thomas. I know he’s only trying to help, but it makes me short with him. I make a note to apologize later, after the numbing fog of grief has transitioned into something smoother.

I make it a point not to sleep that night. With shaking hands, I brew enough coffee for a dinner party and settle in my room, a pitcher by my side. If Mother’s ghost stayed with me, there’s a chance Father’s ghost has as well. No matter how much it might terrify me, I intend to ask it who murdered my father.

An early winter chill envelops that night. I wrap a pair of blankets around my shoulders and stare at the floral pattern of my bedroom wall, sipping my cold coffee. My mind is determined, but my body recoils from the notion of trying to communicate with a ghost, even a family member’s ghost. For years, the air around mother’s spectre has been rancid, prompting my throat to clench, my belly to strangle on itself, my heart to race like a horse, and my muscles and bones to catch between paralyzed spasms and an uncontrollable urge to flee.

In the middle of the night, when my eyes are swollen and tired despite how alert the coffee has made me, the air around me chills. Instantly, I want to pull my blankets over my head and huddle in my bed until the otherworldly visit has passed. I swallow, then push the blankets off my shoulders and force my body off the bed. A cold wind hits my closed window. Somehow, my curtains sway.

My gaze is fixed on the corridor that leads to my bedroom. A dark smog swirls and thickens above the floor, then coalesces into a dark hooded form, details of its features masked by the dimming like for the lamps hanging on the wall. I know I’ve seen its silhouette before, but I can’t give up hope. I force my trembling legs to step on ahead. The specter floats forward as if intending to meet me halfway. Before stepping over the threshold to my room, I grab the candle holder on my dresser.

Another gust of chilled wind passed by my room at the same time that the specter makes a noise that resembles an echoing groan. My heart races faster and I have to fight a rushing need to whirl around and run back to my room, maybe crawl under my bed or into my closet. But I push forward, until I can see the details of the ghost’s features. Barely, I recognize the line of Mother’s cheekbones, the dip of the bones that would’ve have encased her eyeballs had she been alive.

Tears begin spilling from my eyes as Mother’s ghost reaches for my face with skeletal fingers.

_Beware. Crimson. Peeeak,/em >, she says, pushing frozen wind against my face with every syllable._

Rage cuts through the paralyzing terror spreading through my limbs. “I don’t care one about your accursed Crimson _Peak_.”

I slash at the specter with my candle holder. The candles extinguish as they pass through the dense fog that make up the ghost’s form, but it disappears, taking with it the sharpest edge of the cold.

I fall to my knees, my silent tears evolving into desperate, wracking sobs. My face falls to my hands. Father is gone. There’s no phantom left to tell me who has killed him, or why. All I have left is this house, haunted by the memory of a mad ghost and filled with treasures that mean nothing to me without Father’s company.

Though I’m physically drained next morning, I’m prepared to see to the matters of Father’s death. The lawyer, Mr. Ferguson, is quite efficient and could probably handle all matters alone, but I feel that owe Father significant involvement in the matter of his funeral. Only I can honor his penchant for the fancy and expensive without turning his passing into a spectacle.

Thomas returns for a visit late in the afternoon as the sun rests at the edge of the horizon. He stands by my window, looking sallow under the tea-yellow sunlight. “Edith,” he starts, then pauses. “I’m . . . I don’t have words to express my regret for you loss.”

“I don’t have the words either,” I say, “and I’m the writer.”

Thomas looks to the floor, then steps closer and kneels in front of my chair. “All day yesterday I debated whether or not it would be proper to ask the question I’m about to ask in light of this . . . tragedy.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, a few moments after he fails to continue, “that I must move forward. It’s the best way for me to honor Father’s memory. He so hated fixating to the past, or to a predetermined future.”

Thomas smiles, looking more like himself than he has since the odious dinner a couple of nights ago. To think that I’d considered his theatric admonishments of my writing and my character the most painful event of my life, excluding Mother’s untimely death. I smile to myself.

It prompts Thomas to reach into his breast pocket. “I know I don’t have much to offer you in terms of financial stability,” he says, his hand still in his pocket. “But I can promise you my heart and my unconditional support.” He pulls his hand out and shows me an oval, crimson ruby framed by diamonds. “Edith, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Now that I’ve become an heiress, men will be flocking to my door. I’m sure I’ll have married Alan by the end of the year in a quest for peace and quiet.

But Alan is as much a part of my past as the walls that surround me, pulsing with memories of parents that were taken from me too soon.

“Yes,” I tell Sir Thomas Sharpe, whose name is written on the inside of my thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My blog is [here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/). Currently babbling about MCU's Daredevil.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My pet theory is that Edith sense from like second one that Lucille was off, but good manners and lack of objective evidence about the offness kept her from paying attention to her instincts.

Lucille is more excited about the wedding than I am and, considering how staid she is all the time, that means I’ve not been making the most enthusiastic of pictures. It’s probably not fair for Thomas. Marrying him makes me happy, of course it does, but trying to express my exuberance feels like spitting in Father’s memory. Even if he’d approved of Thomas, I don’t think I could have played the part of the blushing, entranced bride-to-be.

“Don’t concern yourself with appearing happier than you are to appease my feelings,” Thomas says when I try to apologize to him. “Your father has died. If you told me you want to postpone our matrimony, I would of course understand.”

“No,” I say, laying a hand on his cheek. “I want to move forward. To leave this place behind.” Perhaps it makes me a coward, but being in this town, where Father’s murderer roams without arousing suspicion, makes me want to claw myself out of my own skin.

“Then we will proceed with as much or as little outward happiness you can muster,” says Thomas, smiling and kissing my nose. “I will just have to look happy enough for the both of us.”

Later, Lucille peruses the single page I handed her with the list of people I want to invite to the wedding. “I approve of the low number,” she says. “Considering the circumstances, most people will see your matrimony as a lurid spectacle. Thomas never enjoyed such things.”

“He likes his solitude.” I smile at a memory of Thomas confessing that deep down, he always dreamed of being an average Englishman with more wit and cunning than useless titles and a failing clay mine.

“Yes,” agrees Lucille. “Left to his own devices, he’ll wither over a broken trinket rather than interact with friends or family.”

I almost ask if Lucille enjoys solitude as well, but I still hesitate to pry too much--or at all--into her thoughts. The few times I’ve tried to ask Lucille of her loves and despairs, she’s turned me away with thinly veiled comments about my youth and how it renders me incapable of understanding anyone outside my “limited sphere”. I do not like being condescended to, but I hold my tongue for Thomas’ sake.

Besides, I learn more than Lucille realizes just by observing her. She’s worlds away from her brother, though I sense that they’re close.

Unlike Thomas, Lucille deeply misses the comforts of wealth. That alone is understandable, but she also misses the fripperies. While Thomas is content to limit his comforts to save money, Lucille does not hesitate to order the most expensive meals at fairs and restaurants. Her room at the hotel has a majestic view of the lake, and is undoubtedly much more expensive than the veritable closet with no windows where Thomas sleeps. Her dresses, though of a fashion outside the preferred touches of the day, are clearly much newer than Thomas’ old suits. And if her prowess for organizing a party in a strange city is anything to go by, Lucille welcomes society gatherings with none of the dread Thomas has alluded to.

“Your dress poses a challenge,” says Lucille a few days before the wedding. “Since you’re supposed to be in mourning -- ”

“I _am.” The word ‘supposed’ rankles me to the point that I’m not too concerned with keeping the peace, even with Thomas’ sister._

“Yes, of course,” says Lucille, unfazed. “As such, your dress cannot be too extravagant. But we would not want Thomas to feel like his future bride is coming to their wedding dressed for a funeral.”

She’s not wrong. I must remember that Lucille has no reason to concern herself with Father, much less his memory, and every reason to think of Thomas’ comfort and reputation. 

In the end, Lucille instructs the dressmaker to fashion a white gown with minimal ruffles and no more than two petticoats. For flavor, the dress will have a collection of pearls sewn on the skirt in a pattern reminiscent of tears.

“It’ll be best if you forgo jewelry, except for the ring, of course. And we’ll keep keep in a conservative chignon,” says Lucille.

“And for you?” I’m ready to foot the bill for Lucille’s dress as well. The groom’s sister shouldn’t look like she’s on her way to a funeral either and I’ve never seen Lucille wear any color lighter than moss-green.

But Lucille surprises me and firmly refuses to accept my gift of a new dress. “The whole world will assume Thomas is nothing more than a fortune hunter,” she says. “Those rumors will only flourish faster if his sister is seen enjoying his new bride’s fortune.”

I think that Lucille will enjoy my fortune plenty once the marriage is official, but that’s inevitable and I don’t want to cause a rift between us over such silliness. Besides, she’s not wrong. Once again. All of polite society functions on silly rules that laugh in the face of common sense. Once I’m officially Thomas’ bride, no one will bat an eye if he uses my money . . . his money at that point, to support his sister.But for now, Thomas should probably refrain from openly making use of my fortune.

Once the matter of the dresses is resolved, it’s easy enough for me to give Lucille free range over the wedding arrangements. She opts for a small ceremony in Father’s house, which I cannot refuse without bringing up Father’s dislike of Thomas, and proceeds to hire musicians and pay the exorbitant fee necessary to get them to Buffalo on such short notice. Luckily, I’m inviting so little people that Father’s staff can prepare the full-course dinner without issues.

All other details are so minor that Lucille does not consult me about them. I do not press the issue.

Mother’s ghost does not return. It seems silly that if I’d mustered the courage to fight years ago, I might have spent my late childhood free of harassment from a specter. I suppose I should feel sad that every trace of Mother on this Earth is now truly gone, but I’m too overcome with pain for Father’s passing to think on it much. In my worst moments, I still hope for his ghost to visit me even though not once did I sense anything resembling peace from Mother’s spectre.

Alan visits me a day before the wedding while Lucille and Thomas are gone on some outing, presumably pertaining to the ceremony. I’m sitting over my typewriter, struggling with a simple sentence, when the maid informs me that he’s waiting downstairs.

“I’ll go down in a moment,” I tell the maid before she curtsies.

I have not seen Alan since Father’s death. A storm in a more remote neighborhood caused significant injuries and he was called away. Though I do not explicitly owe him anything, I worry that the rumors regarding the nature of Alan’s feelings for me are true. If they are, the news of my engagement caused him distress.

The moment I walk down the stairs and note how his shoulders relax at sight of me, I know that the rumors are indeed true. I can only hope that my behavior never gave Alan undue hope.

“Edith,” he says, walking forward as if to embrace me, stopping just short of touching me and glancing at the ruby on my finger. “You look lighter. I’m glad.”

With a nod, I lead him towards the guest room. “Alan, have you spoken to anyone since your return?”

“No.” He sits in front of me and lays his hat on his lap. “Usually, I go straight to Mother when returning from any travels, no matter how close by, but I’ve been worried about you since I left.”

“Thank you.”

“Edith.” He takes a deep breath, looks down at his hat before meeting my eyes once more. “I almost refused to visit the village because I feared that . . . considering all that’s happened . . .”

“Please, Alan, we’re friends.” I try, and perhaps fail, to sound encouraging. “Speak your mind.”

“Everyone in town held your father in high regard,” says Alan. “Only one person stood to benefit from his death.”

Alan is a close childhood friend, and his logic is sound. I keep that in mind and resist the impulse to dismiss him from my home.

“Thomas is a good man.”

“With all due respect,” says Alan. “You cannot know that for sure. You barely know the man.”

True as well, except . . . “He’s my soulmate.”

Alan is visibly taken aback. For a few moments, he stares at me with his mouth slightly open. Then he shakes his head. “Edith, those are old wives’ tales.”

“Then explain the marks.”

“I can’t,” admits Alan. “But I’m not so arrogant as to assume that if I don’t have an explanation for something, it means that the explanation does not exist.”

I search for a rebuttal and stand when I can’t find one. “Truly, I thank you for your concern and I value our friendship. But I love Thomas, and would love him even without the soulmark. I’ve made my decision.”

I expect Alan to stand but instead he bends down and grabs the hem of his left pant leg. Before I can protest, he’s lifted the cloth over his knee and turned his leg so I can look at his calf. There, nestled in downy blond short hairs, is a vertical mark written in elegant, blocky letters of an alphabet I cannot decipher.

“I met a man from China who swears it’s a Japanese name. A very common one.” Alan shrugs.

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.

Alan pulls his pant leg down. “For years, I considered travelling the East, learning their tongue and culture. I thought, how many Asian women could possibly be walking around with an English name on their skin?”

“Alan.”

“But I have a life here,” he continues. “A family that I love. A rewarding career and a community that trusts and understands me. I decided I would be a fool to surrender it all for the slim possibility of finding a woman I might ultimately hate.”

“That’s understandable, but I _have_ found Thomas, and I know I do not hate him.”

And Alan is the one left without rebuttals. He leaves with a sad smile, ever the consummate gentleman. With a curt nod, he promises to attend my wedding ceremony tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal blog is still [here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/), though you probably already know. I watched a weird movie yesterday. Details on the blog.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how property rights worked for women at the time this movie is set. Until otherwise specified, I'm assuming that Thomas owns everything, not that it'll have much of an effect in this story.

The sun shines through despondent clouds on our wedding day. It casts an ethereal, gloomy shroud over the handful of guests gathered in Father’s . . . my guest room. Thomas holds me close while Lucille makes conversation with people who don’t know whether to offer condolences or good wishes, her lips painted a shade too red. I should be happy . . . I am happy, but every few moments something makes me think of Father and my cheeks flush pink for reasons that have nothing to do with my wedding night.

“Edith,” Thomas tells me later, when I approach him in a sheer nightgown trembling like a leaf in a storm, “under the circumstances, it’s only expected that you’re not amenable to marital relations.”

“That’s not your fault.”

Thomas appears to hesitate. “No, but I want our first night together to be full of joy, and it cannot be so until you’ve had time to mourn your father’s passing.”

I almost argue, but the truth is I’m grateful for the reprieve. Though I’m determined to move forward, I can’t vanish Father’s disapproving, saddened gaze every time I close my eyes. I don’t know if Thomas’ touch would be enough to dampen my guilt and, to spare his feelings in case it isn’t, I prefer not to test it.

Thomas is content to hold me through the night, confirming my conviction that marrying him was the right thing to do. I consider telling him about the soul mark, but an instinct I can’t describe holds me back. Ultimately, I tell myself that it would be awkward to raise my nightgown’s skirts and spread my legs for him if I’ve decided that I’m not yet ready to consummate the marriage.

Next morning, we accompany Lucille to the station. Her ship, headed straight for England, is departing a full day before the cruise ship Thomas and I are embarking for our honeymoon. “Remember to write often,” she says, looking exclusively at Thomas. “Any letters I write for you are unlikely to reach a ship that will be mostly out at sea.”

“Of course,” says Thomas. “I’ll write you every night.”

I offer Lucille my goodbyes, suspecting that if I’d failed to speak up, she’d have boarded the train without once looking at me. As it is, she responds to my words with a thin smile that resembles a grimace and steps onto the train without a word.

“I think she doesn’t like me,” I say to Thomas.

“No,” he says quickly, pulling me into a loose hug. “She just has trouble expressing her feelings, and she doesn’t like to be alone despite how . . . aloof she can seem.”

I don’t think Lucille has any trouble expressing her displeasure at anything in the world, but I understand that Thomas has every reason to defend his sister and I don’t feel strongly enough on the issue to risk starting an argument about it. We have one day left to say goodbye. It will be unpleasant for everyone if there’s a discordant air about me and Thomas even though we’ve been married for a single night.

Our first stop is the McMichaels. They are my family’s oldest friends and though I suspect no one in the household is happy about my marriage, I can’t bring myself to abscond without paying my respects. Mrs. McMichael and Alan are graceful enough, though subdued, but poor Eunice pleads a headache and doesn’t come down to see us. I feel no vindication or pity even though she has never shied from tormenting me about my mannish habits and apparent shyness. My thoughts are too preoccupied with imaginations about what it would’ve been like to say goodbye to Father.

Next, we visit my family attorney . . . my attorney now. He’s mercifully businesslike as he describes how much time it will take for all of Father’s holdings and accounts transfer to me, and then to Thomas. If he has any suspicions about Thomas’ motives, he’s too professional to make them known.

“For now,” Thomas says as we leave the office, “we should try our best to enjoy our honeymoon.”

He sounds light, and looks it as well, as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders sometime during the day.

In an instant, I’m furious at him. It’s a miracle he doesn’t notice because I feel like a volcano is trying to erupt from my chest.

“Come, Edith,” he goes on obliviously. “Is there a place in Buffalo that you will particularly miss?”

I’ll miss all of it. The merciless winter storms, the ever present mud on days when it didn’t snow, the biting cold, and the dready browns blanketing the city. I will miss Father’s laughter, his gruff but ineffective rebuffs whenever I acted in a way he disapproved of, his silly attempts to look younger than his years, and most of all his enthusiasm at the scientific news on the paper.

Thankfully, I get myself under control before Thomas notices anything amiss. So far, he has been nothing but understanding about my grief and does not deserve to be the target of irrational anger.

We return to my home, where servants are dutifully packing bags and trying their best to leave every inch of the house spotless. I find a cleaning girl crying in Father’s library. When I try to offer her a bit of extra money in her last payment, she thanks with a smile but refuses. “I already got another job lined up, Miss Edith. It’s memories of your kind papa that are getting to me.”

My eyes water before I can help myself. Thomas finds me and the maid holding each other through ugly sobs.

“I don’t understand,” I cry to Thomas after the maid has excused herself, drying her eyes. “Who would hurt Father like that? Why? He was a good, generous man.”

Thomas pulls me into a tight hug without saying anything. The shaking sobs don’t leave me, not until after I’ve dirtied his jacket with tears and snot. I can’t find it in my bones to be sorry about it.

“It will pass,” says Thomas. “Just close your eyes and let yourself feel it here, where it’s safe.”

That night, I’m so exhausted that Thomas doesn’t even look at me with amorous intentions. I fall asleep on his chest without changing into a sleeping gown, wondering why Mother’s ghost hasn’t visited me the second before I lose consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal blog is [still here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/). My one post about this movie is [here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/2015/10/crimson-peak-romance-novel-and-ghost.html). I included that gif of Hiddleston's butt.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in a hotel room, with a headache. Sorry if it sucks.
> 
> In other news, Edith sure sounded disappointed when telling Lucille that Thomas was very understanding of her grief.

I spend the first day of my honeymoon in a private daze. The trip to the station, the ride ride, embarking on the cruise . . . I see it all happening outside myself, as if my body is no more than a mannequin controlled by whatever part of me isn’t crying in some corner of my mind. Undoubtedly, strangers mutter about the charming Englishman’s aloof bride in pitying tones. Thomas seems to take it all in stride.

I’ve never been at sea before. Though the air is not necessarily colder than Buffalo’s biting winter winds, I still hug my shoulder as the ship leaves the harbor. Wet salt hits my nose, then I realize that it’s started raining.

“Come, Edith,” says Thomas, gently pulling on my elbow. Under other circumstances, I might have been miffed at the lost opportunity to watch the shore as the ship sails off.

The floor sways as we walk through the narrow corridors leading to our cabin, though not so sharply that I ever fear I might lose my balance. I lean on Thomas’ shoulder anyway, seeking comfort that I doubt anyone can give me.

“Do you wish to eat?” asks Thomas. “Soup, perhaps?”

I all but crawl into our bed, thinking that I would much rather sleep. The trip has exhausted me.

I wake to find Thomas waiting with a full plate of food, the sun casting him in a warm, golden halo. “You must eat,” he says, “or your body will perish while your soul heals.”

I reach for the bread though I don’t feel much in the way of hunger. This honeymoon is turning out dreadful enough for Thomas. Making him worry that I’ll faint due to hunger I cannot feel would be adding insult to injury.

“The weather is much more agreeable today,” says Thomas as I sip tepid soup. “Once noon has passed, we should make a trip to the deck. Fresh air might lift your spirits.”

I doubt it but it makes little difference to me whether I stay in the cabin or not. In fact, it’s best if I explore. Later, I know I will regret not having made an attempt to create fond memories during my first days as Thomas’ wife.

We run into a few people on the way to the deck. For the first time in my life, I find myself purposely avoiding others’ gaze, keeping my nose upturned as if I expect a challenge. Dimly, I imagine that I must look like Lucille as I sidestep a stout matron wearing a silly wig. The old woman chuckles and it grates at my ears. She shares a look with Thomas, who shrugs with a sheepish smile.

There’s more laughter in the deck. Couples and families clutter the area, talking among themselves and pointing at seagulls flying over us. Thomas slips an arm around my waist and leads me to the deck’s highest point.

“The ship will dock in North Carolina late in the afternoon,” he says. “Seeing the approaching shoreline is always wonderful, like seeing the sun set or rise in reverse.”

The odd image those words conjure brings a smile to my lips. I lean back against Thomas’ chest and he wraps his arms around my waist. Mercifully, he remains silent. I enjoy the sound of waves crashing against the ship and the seagulls calling out to each other. As we near the port, people join us to gaze at the shore.

Watching the buildings and trees get bigger as the ship approached does feel like a backward sunset, though I doubt I’d have thought of the odd description if Thomas hadn’t voiced it first.

“Have you ever tried your hand at writing?” I ask. Thomas stiffens at my back. “What?”

“Nothing . . . you hadn’t spoken a word in two days, is all.”

“Really?” I’ve been much ruder than I first thought. I should be appalled.

“Longer, perhaps,” Thomas whisper. “Since . . .”

Since my breakdown after the crying session with my maid. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for apologies, love. I’m just happy to hear your voice again.”

Though the exchange doesn’t raise me from my numb haze, it does wake me into being more mindful of Thomas’ feelings. I produce a few comments about wishing we had enough time to disembark and visit the city, then ask Thomas to take me to dinner so he thinks my appetite has improved. The food falls on my tongue like a wet towel, but I must admit that having something to eat settles my stomach.

Thomas and I dance for the first time since the obligatory waltz at our wedding. He beams down at me. The smile I respond with is only mildly forced and the longer I hold it, the truer it becomes. Soon, our dance loses formal coordination and we’re just swaying against each other. Thomas lets out an easy laugh I’ve never heard before, then we’re giggling against each other like school children sharing a naughty secret.

I think that maybe we had too much to drink at dinner as we stumble to our cabin. The ships still sways, but no where near intensely enough to make two healthy adults trip into each other. Thomas fumbles while opening our door, barely catching our key before it falls on the floor.

“You bragged you have nimble fingers once,” I say.

“They fail when I’m in front of a beautiful woman.”

“That doesn’t bode well for our wedding night.” I probably would not have dared to say such a thing if not for the wine.

It makes Thomas’ already flushed cheeks turn a shade pinker. Butterflies dance in belly at the sight. Tonight, I feel light enough to consummate our marriage. Any trembling in my limbs is due to excitement, not grief. I touch Thomas the moment the door closes behind us, reaching for him with my lips and closing my eyes.

I open them the instant he freezes, placing his hands on my waist, muscles tensed as if ready to push me away.

“Perhaps we’ve had too much to drink, Edith.”

“It doesn’t matter; I’m happy.” Though the feeling ebbs away the moment I have to say it out loud.

“I don’t know if that happiness is real.”

“Well, it’s gone now,” I say, hating how petulant I sound. I step away from him, my butterflies falling, settling like dried stones on my belly.

“Edith,” Thomas tries as I turn away from him. “We have all the time in the world.” It comes out strained, forcing me to see the contrast between the Thomas who giggled on the dance floor and the Thomas who stands with his shoulderblades like jutting knives.

My goodwill has evaporated. I don’t know how long it takes me to fall asleep, but I do know that Thomas doesn’t join me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My blog trucks along [here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/). I posted more about Crimson Peak.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack!!! Haven't forgotten this fic. I've just been distracted.

Thomas shies away from alcohol after that night and I’m ashamed to admit that I’m too meek to protest. I’m not even sure that I should, or even why I would. It’s not like I’ve ever been a drinker, both because it’s a frowned-upon indulgence among unmarried ladies and because I don’t even like the taste or feel of spirits. Still, I can’t altogether shake a certainty that I’ve been cheated of something, of getting my wedding night over with, if nothing else.

Otherwise, Thomas is as charming and gentlemanly as ever. While at sea, he regales me with stories about maritime battles during the age of exploration while the wind caresses my cheeks and the sun warms our bodies. Our evenings pass in a whirl of laughter, dance, and thrilling conversation with rich travelers from all over the world. Whenever the ship docks, Thomas makes it a point to take me on whirlwind tours of the world’s most famous cities: Paris, Venice, Greece, Egypt. He carries a sketchbook and I sit by his side while draws famous architecture.

“Could you ever draw me?”

“I could try,” he says, “though my talent is minimal and my training focused entirely on engineering.”

“Your talent is not minimal.” On the paper, the Eiffel Tower looks straighter and cleaner than it does in real life.

I see Father in every stout older gentleman that crosses my path. Thomas remains supportive and doesn’t say anything when I stop paying attention to his words, convinced that the back of a auburn head should mean something to me. Once, while we search for a particular brand of cheese for Lucille among Greece’s stores, I catch a glimpse of a rounded belly pinched by a too-tight belt and take off, Thomas forgotten.

The older man turns a corner and I lose him in the crowd. For a moment, my heart flutters in my chest like a mouse twitching in a trap, then I remember that Father is dead and I’m assaulted by the most curious mixture of relief and grief. Then I look around for Thomas and fail to find him among Greece’s crowd of swarthy men.

With a much more tangible reason to fear, I try to retrace my steps. I don’t suppose it will be too great a hassle to find someone among the business owners who might help me get back to the ship, but the thought of leaving Thomas frantic in the crowd makes me feel like a ninny. The feeling mutates into something sinister the more I scurry about looking for Thomas and calling out his name. Am I just bewildering myself further? Should I stand still and wait for Thomas to find me? What if the ship leaves us?

I look towards the shore and decide to head back to the ship, determined to tied myself to the mast if I must to keep it from sailing without us. In a sharp turn, I run into Thomas, who pulls me to his chest with more force than I would’ve thought him capable of.

“Edith, why would run off like that?”

I wonder how I could be driven to tears by nothing more than a sharp, deserved reprimand, then realize that I’ve been quietly crying for some time. “I thought I saw Father.”

Abruptly, Thomas’ hold on me loosens. He hums as though I’m a child, then kisses my forehead. “Let us return to the ship.”

“But Lucille’s cheese--”

“--some other time,” says Thomas, ushering me towards the shore.

No matter how much I berate myself for the silliness, my limbs behave as though they’ve been robbed of all strength. Thomas all but carries me to our cabin, then spends the evening hovering over me with tea and toast like a mother hen. I lament that another night will pass without our marriage being consummated, then snort at myself.

“Something wrong?” asks Thomas.

“No,” I say, too quickly.

Thomas stares at me for a charged moment, then looks out our window. I imagine him losing himself in the waves, or perhaps the waves taking him away from me.

“It’s just . . .” I trail off until Thomas abandons all pretense at tact and looks back at me.

We haven’t discussed our physical relationship since our disastrous first night at sea. At first, I was embarrassed by my drunken display and told myself that I would wait until the episode was no more than a silly memory between us, but the days passed and Thomas behaved more and more gentlemanly towards me, as courteous and respectful as Alan.

No, more. At least I always suspected that Alan had romantic designs on me, and lately I’ve been wondering if Thomas isn’t being _too_ chivalrous for a read-blooded male in love.

“How do you feel about soulmarks?” I ask, uncertain of how else to approach the topic of our relationship. Even that detail has swollen into something that threatens ruin our mood. What will Thomas say when he sees it? If he ever sees it?

“Oh, that silliness?”

I look up at Thomas so quickly that he seems taken aback. “Silliness?”

“Yes . . .” He breathes, his shoulders suddenly hunched. “Forgive me. I thought since you never mentioned it . . . well, I assumed you didn’t consider our lack of such a connection significant.”

“Our lack?” I’m well aware that I’m starting to sound like a parrot, but I don’t know what else I can say.

“Edith.” Thomas leans down to hold my hands and look me in the eye. “I’m sorry for not saying it before, but I will say it now. I don’t care about whatever name you bear anywhere in your body. I will treat our marriage with the utmost respect regardless.”

There’s that word again. Respect. I’m not sure I even know what it means anymore, or if I want it anywhere near my marriage. “What name do you have, Thomas?”

His hands fly away from mine, challenging the light tone he uses for his response. “Me? I have none. I’m lucky to be free of such superstitions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of short, but I didn't want to get rambly for the sake of ramblyness. My blog is still [here](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back to work, which means I forced this out of me while craving a big fat nap.

An instinct I can’t explain keeps me from discussing the matter of soulmarks further. It would be most expedient to just reveal my mark to Thomas, but I hear a cautioning whisper, my mother’s voice perhaps, and decide to let the pieces fall where they may. Our cruise passes without further events, except for the chasm that forms between myself and Thomas even as our laughter grows louder and our dancing more frantic.

It’s nothing that I can put my finger on. We still dance, laugh, and make merry with other guests. Thomas narrates the greatest moments of European history as we pass from port to port. At the deck, with the chaperoning presence of other travelers, he hugs me and shields me from the cooling winds and I give myself permission to enjoy the flimsy facsimile of intimacy. 

“We’ll reach Allerdale Hall in a matter of days,” he tells me the morning when our cruise ship arrives in England. Though he sounds placid, I detect a hint of tension in his shoulders, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “I must warn you; the structure is in a state of shameful disrepair. What little funds we had left, I spent on the extractor.”

“It’s not shameful to prioritize labor over appearances,” I say, smiling at a memory of my father and his sometimes hypocritical adages. 

He smiles at me but does not meet my eyes. 

We leave the bustling London crowds before the day is over. Thomas won’t spare time to regale me with stories, neither of the British Empire or of any friends or family he might have in the city. He’s quiet enough that I ask if he’s feeling well. To my surprise, he admits that he has been feeling a little under the weather for a few days and begs for my patience. 

“Of course,” I say as the carriage I rented sways on its way to the train station. “Please, rest.”

A callous sense I hadn't known I possess grumbles inside me. Haven’t I been more than patient? Haven’t I resisted all temptations to protest Thomas’ willful shirking of his husbandly duties? He doesn’t want to consummate our marriage while I still grieve, but just when exactly does he expect I’ll stop hurting for my father’s death? 

Of course, I can’t lay the blame entirely on his feet. For almost two weeks now I’ve been too timid and embarrassed to press the issue, all because the subject of soulmarks has morphed into monster. Why, I’m not sure I know anymore, if I ever did. All I know is that Thomas holds his contempt about soulmarks and soulmates close to his chest. When I imagine showing him my mark, I don’t envision him bursting with happiness. I envision a man defending his beliefs the way a priest might defend the existence of God. 

“Everything will be colder and drearier, I’m afraid,” Thomas says next day when rain starts beating against our train cart’s window. “Thanks to my parents’ poor management, the town’s infrastructure, which was meager to begin with, is in shambles.”

“You’ll make it better,” I smile. “If not with your extractor, then by helping me with my manuscripts and turning me into a literary sensation.”

He leans forward and grabs my hands. “You want to write again? Truly?” 

“Yes,” I say, energized by Thomas’ enthusiasm.

The quick barrage of changes, both emotional and physical, had done me the disservice of demanding an abrupt setting change for my heroine that would have required extensive editing. Father’s abrupt death. My marriage and lackluster honeymoon. The beautiful sea and bustling cities contrasting it all. Coupled with my decline in focus and energy, it’s no surprise that I haven’t been able to pen a complete sentence since Father’s death.

To my surprise and delight, England’s rural roads and increasingly lonely towns are a balm to my creativity. The rain, the biting cold winds, the people dressed in plain brown and smoking fat cigars, the odd goat ambling around in a sparse field . . . if not for the accents (so unlike Thomas’ refined lilt), I would swear I’m back in Toronto. 

I don’t start writing right away, but I do take out my early chapters intent on polishing my work and becoming reacquainted with the relatively carefree girl who started the tale. Some of it charms me, and what doesn’t seems easily fixable. 

Thomas helps. He combs through paragraphs for overwrought prose, makes sure that each sentence flows logically from the one before and sets up the one coming after it. We sit close once again, resting on each other’s side without blushing or balking when our hands brush and our breaths mingle. I hadn’t realized it, but having to perform as a happy honeymooning couple had put as strain on us both.

“It’s as small as you said,” I comment about the town at Allerdale’s foot when we finally arrive. 

Barely a handful of huts, really, with a few concrete homes interspersed throughout. Few people are out and about, and the ones who are don’t pause to greet us as Thomas heads for the lone farmer renting out a carriage. I fear that the place isn’t big enough to attract essential people like doctors, teachers, or drugists. At least Thomas should be mechanic enough for all of them. 

“And it’s grown smaller over the years,” says Thomas. “People must flee to London, or towns closer to it, for honest work. And dishonest work, sometimes. Neither is abundant here.”

“Can’t you hire more servants?” I ask. “Surely some of them would be willing to work for a smaller salary if it would mean that they get to stay in their homes.”

“Allerdale has no servants,” says Thomas.

“Why on Earth not?” He had described it as three floor mansion. How could Lucille be in such a large place by herself? 

“You’ll see once we get there,” says Thomas.

“What do you mean?”

His arm around me tightens. “Don’t worry. People in these small backwater towns are just overly superstitious.”

Father used to say that necessity and hunger annihilate superstitions. I cannot imagine any reason that might make a town full of people refuse shelter and work, but I hold my tongue. 

I’ve been holding my tongue so often since I met Thomas. If only the mamas who called me presumptuous and loudmouthed could see me now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over here is [my blog](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/), as usual.


End file.
